


dressing room

by FishLeather



Category: Original Work
Genre: Acting, Darkness, F/F, Lesbianism, Second Person, but not a reader-insert i think, dust - Freeform, light - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-03-30
Updated: 2019-03-30
Packaged: 2019-12-26 14:00:40
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 482
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18283730
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/FishLeather/pseuds/FishLeather





	dressing room

The curtain rings screeched as the dressing room was entered. They clanked against themselves as the entrance was closed again for what passed as privacy. Someone once said this place wasn't a barn. It was a privilege. The silhouette went still, backdropped by a wash of tinted light through the plastic sheet. A vague shape in the floating dust. You wondered if this was on purpose. By design. You'd made a poor guess already, and were shy to feel that bite again. The seconds passed as you waited for your visiter to be revealed. To find you a captive audience, or a red-handed ghost. You couldn't tell which was the better fit for your frame.

"Of all the places to hide." a voice stated too loudly. Too clearly. Like a teacher. Like a priest. Like a child. Like an actress just 6 months your senior whose name you realize has eluded your grasp like a feather in the wind. Like a dream, you think to stand up, but don't. The shape wavers in the light, before taking a step, then two. This time, you manage to find your feet, cold on the worn floor, and you use them to get upright before help could be offered and customarily declined. Two shadows now stood in the corner of the dressing room, two shadows among the hanged personalities of everyone not on stage. One of the hangers is wire, and it seems comically stressed by the great furs it holds.

By the shine in your eye she is beckoned, led, directed, invited and accepted to your corner of the room. Eye-to-eye without your usual ensemble. Breath to breath. Shared. Traded. It is unbearably intimate, and unspeakably quiet. You think this is either the end or the beginning. Hopefully both. Or neither. Your hand decides to move up slowly, as if by the string of a puppeteer. Your fingers barely decide not to touch her cheek, ghosting across and around, to hold her by the center back like on tuesday afternoons. But you weren't in the costume. You weren't acting today. This was You, you think.

Like a gunshot. Like an alarm clock. Like a pair of women who never realized they were trapped until the obstacle was gone. Like champaigne the two of you fell towards the door. The curtain was slammed open with wonderful force, some items fell off the hangers as the curtain rings tore off. The sun was blinding, enlightening, and beautiful. Steadying yourself at the windowsill, you held her and felt your face get hot. You had nothing to say. Neither did she. Actions prevailed.

The kiss was deep and clumsy, nothing like on stage. A thousand ghosts escaped with every breath. You held her like she was the only thing preventing your fall into the depths of Hell itself. She held you like she knew that was the case.


End file.
